Ethics
by the-nerd-word
Summary: Ethos POV from Chapter 3, Page 30, when Praxis thinks his navigator is away. Warnings for mentions of dubious consent.


I took the idea of Ethos' relationship with his previous fighter from A2MOM and Violetnyte.

Ethos pretended to be asleep when Praxis came back to the room late at night.

He was laying in his top bunk, still dressed in his navie clothes because he had only finished working and he was tired in a way that made changing seem like such a chore, tired in a way that left him staring at the ceiling with heavy eyes and an unfocused mind.

He had been partnered with Praxis for nearly a month now, four weeks of succinct conversation and a lonely room. Ethos supposed he should be grateful; before Praxis, he had been partnered with Logos, an aggressive, energetic fighter with a swag to his step and, sometimes, a fist with his words. Logos had been cruel, but he had also been smart; he understood how to get away with things that should've been looked at twice.

And Ethos had learned from him, learned how to speak in a way that left a smile, walk in a way that was out of the way. It didn't take long for him to realize that Logos liked to be in control, and he liked to be praised. And, strangely enough, he liked to please Ethos.

Maybe it was a boost to his own self-esteem, Ethos didn't really know, but Logos had gone out of his way to do things for Ethos, little things like bringing him a cup of coffee, or offering a massage after a hard day at work, or letting him have the first shower.

It had been the little things that made Ethos think that maybe he wanted it, maybe it could be a good thing.

So when Logos pushed Ethos down on the lower bunk for the first time, Ethos took a deep breath and told himself, Don't worry, this is okay. He thought the same when things went too fast, when Logos gripped him tightly by the hair, left bruises with his teeth, pushed in without consideration, laughed when Ethos gave a small cry of pain.

And afterward, when Logos held him and murmured sweet things in his ear, Ethos wondered why he felt so much shame.

Things with Logos were pretty routine. They woke up, had normal conversations, went to their respective jobs. Sometimes Logos came back in a good mood, and he would smile and flirt and make Ethos feel special before he pushed Ethos down on the bed and left new, unwanted bruises. Other times, after hard workouts or a fight, his expression would be black, and if Ethos didn't say, move, act, breathe perfectly, he'd get another type of bruise, one left by a hand instead of lips and teeth.

After a while, Ethos wasn't sure which he feared more.

Logos didn't have regrets. When he saw the marks his anger had left behind on Ethos' pale, smooth skin, he would shrug, tell Ethos that he had deserved it for being such a brat, such an inconsiderate navigator, and Ethos would nod and apologize and wonder if he was beginning to believe himself, and then Logos would smile like he always did, and he'd kiss those bruises and tell Ethos how beautiful he was before flipping the nineteen-year-old on his stomach and making the whole thing feel like a lot less than love.

Logos was quick, smart, never did anything that anyone else could see, and Ethos always told himself not to be a baby, that he had never strictly said no, that he had allowed this mess to happen in the first place so it was nobody's fault but his own. Crying never did any good, only made Logos angry, prone to shove Ethos around and call him ungrateful until Ethos really regretted it, started to think that maybe Logos was right.

It went on for months, probably would've lasted their entire enlistment if medical hadn't randomly ordered basic physicals for the navigators after a report of a stress-induced panic attack in one of the labs.

Ethos had assured them he was fine, perfectly healthy, but eventually he was ordered to take off his shirt, and when the medics' eyes froze on the swell of fresh and lingering bruises, Ethos couldn't hold back terrified little sobs. The Lead Navigator was called in, but Ethos shook his head, dodged the questions, promised them it was okay, it was all okay because he knew Logos would be furious, and Ethos didn't think he could survive that anger.

In the end, his worries were for nothing; Logos was quickly and dishonorably discharged, awaiting charges back on the main station, and Ethos never saw his fighter again. All too quickly, he was being reassigned to the Sleipnir and a new fighter, a man named Praxis, and the whole thing was patched up so smoothly it made Ethos wonder how often this sort of thing happened, this sort of thing that nobody wanted to talk about, hear about, had time for in the middle of a war.

When he was introduced to Praxis in front of Commander Bering, Ethos dreaded a repeat of the past. He sent Praxis sideways glances, noticing how this fighter seemed so cold, how he was bigger than Logos had been. But after Praxis showed Ethos their room, he left for training, and it wasn't long before Ethos realized that Praxis wasn't interested in spending time together, or even talking.

Ethos figured he should be grateful, granted privacy after having none for so long; blessed with not having to share his body with someone who only roughly abused it. But Ethos only felt lonely and further ashamed of himself for missing a predator.

So when Praxis got back to the room that evening, after four long weeks of being partnered together, Ethos kept quiet in his top bunk. He listened to the sounds of Praxis changing from his fighter's jacket and pants to something more comfortable for sleep. After a few minutes, the bottom bunk squeaked, and then there was silence.

Several minutes passed. Ethos strained to listen to Praxis' breathing, wondering if the fighter was asleep, knowing that Praxis never rested as much as he should, but he couldn't hear anything.

Then there was the sound of a zipper being drawn, and after a few moments, a sigh.

Ethos froze, telling himself that it was probably nothing, there was no way he was unlucky enough to- Praxis gave a soft, but very distinct moan, and Ethos felt his eyes go wide. He put a hand over his mouth as embarrassment heated his cheeks.

He should've said something when Praxis walked in, should've at least made some noise so the fighter didn't think he had the room to himself. Ethos berated himself over and over, telling himself that it was his own cowardice that had gotten him in this awkward situation. He wondered if he should pretend to snore, if Praxis would stop but think Ethos was still asleep, so no harm done. But somehow, he didn't think that would go over so well. He didn't know what to do, and hated the thought of interrupting something so… personal.

And when Praxis suddenly whimpered and panted, Ethos felt warmth settle between his legs. He took a deep, quiet breath and tried to focus on the dots on the ceiling, something that helped him calm down when he had a stressful day. But with every little noise beneath him, Ethos felt himself grow a little harder, and it had been so long since he had let anyone see him, touch him, love him. He missed the feel of having someone next to him, and shame only made his cheeks burn brighter because he missed Logos a little, too, and he knew he shouldn't.

He was alone now, even if he had another fighter, and Ethos told himself there was nothing wrong with wanting to feel good. Still, he kept his arms resolutely by his sides, hands curled into tight fists because this was wrong, so wrong, and he couldn't, he just couldn't…

Praxis moaned loudly, swaying the bunks as he shifted and threw his head back, letting out deep, pleasured breaths, and Ethos prayed for forgiveness before quietly slipping a hand under the front of his pants. His toes curled as he gripped his erection, and he chewed on his lip as he carefully began to pump.

He had always been timid about touching himself, especially after living with Logos for so long, and it felt so reassuring, so dizzying and rewarding, to work his hand over his cock, just relaxing and focusing on keeping his breath even as he tugged on the shaft, worked his thumb over the head and beading slit.

There were no expectations of him, no need to be anything less than genuine as he squeezed his eyes shut and used his free hand to gently rub his nipples, thighs and balls. As Praxis began to pant louder, Ethos struggled not to make noises of his own, and he swallowed against the urge to whimper, increasing the speed of his hand on his cock.

He didn't know if Praxis was imagining someone, knew at least that it wasn't likely him, which was fine if a little disappointing. Ethos just let his mind wander, seeing fighters in those slick black suits, bare chests after training, the pretty twist of Lieutenant Keeler's hair against his pale throat, dark, muscled skin as Praxis undressed in the evenings.

He was close, so close, and it took every ounce of his willpower to stay silent. He could feel sweat dampening his hairline, and he kept tensing, flexing his stomach and hips as he neared that sweet, sharp line, feeling his cock ache.

It ended all too soon, Praxis giving a final, drawn out gasp, riding out a heavy orgasm before his breaths evened out, became quiet. Ethos froze, and he could've cried with how close he was, but then Praxis shifted, and Ethos could hear his boots hit the floor. There was silence, during which Ethos was terrified with the certainty that he'd be discovered, hand still in his pants and a flush staining his cheeks. He held his breath, wishing he could sink right into the mattress.

Then Praxis stood up and went to the bathroom, shut the door behind him, and Ethos had never gotten out of a bed faster in his life. Ignoring the painful reminder of his erection, he scaled down the bunk ladder, keeping his steps as light as possibly as he darted for the door.

Once he was in the safety of the hallway, Ethos looked around and, seeing that he was alone, dropped to a crouch against the wall. He patted his cheeks and wiped at his forehead, trying to hide any traces that anything had ever happened. Thankfully, his embarrassment and nervousness were helping with the problem in his pants, because there was no way he'd be able to face Praxis otherwise.

He tried not to think about what he had just done, how he had essentially used Praxis' ignorance to… take advantage. It was wrong, and Ethos closed his eyes, feeling himself blush. He felt humiliated, even a little guilty. Like a creep.

Eventually, he cooled down, felt his heart return to a normal rate. Taking a deep breath, he told himself to go back, just play it off like he hadn't been there the entire time. When he opened the door, Praxis was at the dresser, reaching for his fighter's jacket. He hesitated only briefly, felt the blush return to lightly stain his cheeks. "Oh! Praxis, you're actually here." Because they both knew Praxis usually wasn't.

"Ethos," Praxis acknowledged quietly, slipping on his jacket.

"We'll be entering Colteron space soon," Ethos said, realizing with concern that Praxis was leaving. He swallowed against the anxiety in his throat, hoping Praxis hadn't figured out what had happened. "I thought we could practice some… Hey! Where are you going?"

Praxis turned away coldly, didn't even look at him. "Out."

Ethos stared after his fighter, knowing he and Praxis would never be close, knowing Praxis missed his old navigator. He broke his gaze from the closed door, feeling ashamed, unwanted and lonely.


End file.
